


on the third day

by annundriel



Series: let us melt, and make no noise [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patience, it seems, really is a virtue. His own had paid off again and again, and now Dorian lies in the golden light of the late afternoon, limbs relaxed in sleep, and the Bull thinks, <i>I love you</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the third day

The Bull pauses just inside the door to their room as it latches behind him. The corner of the box he carries digging into his palm. A recent purchase, one that had caught his eye as he passed the Orlesian stall in the courtyard. He'd stopped, arrested by the twin curves of metal, and immediately thought of Dorian. Hadn't been able to leave without their purchase.

He'd gone to their room to hide them for later, a surprise for after dinner, maybe, Dorian hot and eager against him. He hadn't thought he'd find Dorian already there, but he is. On the bed. Naked.

Asleep.

The Bull's heart thuds twice in his chest, off rhythm, and he shuts the door carefully behind him. _I love you_ , Dorian had said on their first morning two days ago. The Bull had been pleased, ecstatic, but not surprised, not really. He'd seen this coming, had felt it in his bones. Had hoped.

Patience, it seems, really is a virtue. His own had paid off again and again, and now Dorian lies in the golden light of the late afternoon, limbs relaxed in sleep, and the Bull thinks, _I love you_.

Grip tightening on the box in his hand, he closes the distance between the door and the bed, taking care to step softly. Watches Dorian's face in repose, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes smoothed away. The kohl he uses is slightly smudged, and as the Bull lowers himself--carefully so as not to disturb Dorian--to sit at the edge of the bed, his fingers itch to reach out and rub it away. To reach out and follow the planes and curves of him is all Bull wants, watching him as he sleeps, Dorian soft and touchable here in the privacy of their room. The Bull's eyes move from his mussed hair--curling gently over his forehead and cheek, his neck--to his smudged eyes, the oh so slightly less than perfect mustache and, beneath it, the relaxed bow of his bottom lip ripe and plump for the kissing. The Bull lingers there, thoughts of that mouth and what it is capable of distracting him, before he continues. He watches Dorian's chest rise and fall, steady and certain. Watches the light catch on the piercing at each nipple before his eyes move on, down and down across Dorian's unscarred skin. Down to where his cock rests quiescent against his thigh, ring of gold at the head.

Strange that he should be filled with such fondness, such a desire to protect, to keep that skin unmarred, when Dorian lies asleep. His heart thuds off-rhythm again, and he sighs, lifts his hand to reach out and brush the hair from Dorian's temple only to find Dorian's eyes open, half-slits watching him in the afternoon light. 

The Bull pauses, hand held between them for a moment, the span of a breath only, before he continues on his trajectory. Dorian's skin is warm against his fingertips, his hair soft, and the Bull brushes it back before letting his fingers trail down the line of Dorian's cheek to his jaw, his neck. He watches Dorian watch him, and his breath comes a little quicker as he follows the path his eyes had taken earlier, down and down to the space of skin above Dorian's cock.

Dorian blinks at him, and shifts his hips.

Swallowing, the Bull trails his fingers down lower, over the soft skin of his cock. He can take all of Dorian in his hand, cup him there like this in the quiet of their room, no sound but their own breathing. Fingers moving, he brushes the piercing at the head, and Dorian shivers beneath his touch, his thighs falling open as he begins to harden against the Bull's palm.

Fuck, but he's a lucky man.

Dorian sighs, eyes still half-slits, and his mouth falls open. The pink tip of his tongue traversing across the curve of his bottom lip is sweet and tempting, an offer the Bull cannot refuse. He leans over, hand careful on Dorian's cock, until Dorian's face is below his own, until Dorian is looking up at him all soft and mussed and warm. Waiting. The Bull touched their foreheads together, closes his eyes. Feels Dorian's breath match his own. And then he fits their mouths together and still, after these days returned, feels like coming home.

Distantly, the Bull hears the soft thud of the box slipping from his hand to the floor. He doesn’t care, though, not when Dorian is welcoming him in, his lips and tongue lush. Their kiss is slow, sleepy, and the Bull finds himself falling into it, his heart an ache in his chest when Dorian's hand brushes his arm, fingers trailing nonsense on his bicep, the curve of his shoulder. The Bull pulls away, and watches as Dorian's eyes slowly slip back open, as the corners of his mouth curl upward.

The corners of Bull's own mouth rise to mirror his, his heart full. If he had known when he'd sent Krem to Haven that *this* would be the eventual result, he would have done it sooner. _All things in their time_ , he thinks, _even here. Especially here_.

Straightening, he takes in the picture Dorian makes on the bed, limbs loose, fingers curling on the coverlet. His cock is half-hard beneath the Bull's hand, and his pulse ticks away at line of his neck. There's a bruise there, a dark smudge against his skin, and the Bull grins, remembering the way Dorian had arched into him, fingernails sharp at his shoulders. Before Dorian had gone away, he would have protested as soon as the Bull began to suck, would have laughed low in his throat and squirmed until the laugh turned into a groan. He’d have looked at the mark the next day in the mirror and bemoaned Bull’s lack of control, color high on his cheeks.

Now, though, now he had clutched at the Bull harder, held him closer. Had touched fingers to the shape of the Bull’s mouth against his skin and grinned at the Bull in the mirror, unabashed. _You’ve adorned me anew, I see_ , he’d said, turning to where the Bull had still lounged in bed.

He’d reached for Dorian, pulling him in for a kiss. _What can I say, you’re a_ dorn _able_.

It had gotten him a light slap on his shoulder, but Dorian had grinned as he’d left, a bounce to his steps. Dorian happy and settled in his skin, and the Bull had watched him leave and felt like the world was his for the taking.

 _But not the only thing_ , he thinks now, fingertip following the warm curve of metal at the head of Dorian’s cock. It’s smooth beneath his touch, the gold perfect and shining, and Dorian shivers beneath him as he follows the metal to hot skin, the tip of his finger dipping between the ring and Dorian.

The sigh Dorian lets out shakes at the end, a trembling breath of air that draws the Bull’s eyes up to Dorian’s face and the lip he now holds between his teeth. The Bull’s mouth waters. Later, perhaps, he will swallow Dorian again, feel the piercing at the back of his throat as Dorian fills him. Hold him there, tenderly, until Dorian’s fingers are scrabbling at his scalp and his thighs are twitching. It will be good and slow and sweet, so very sweet, and the Bull will be happy there in their bed with Dorian’s cock deep in his throat.

Shifting, he fits his fingers around the shaft of Dorian’s cock, enjoying the weight of him in his hand, the soft skin against his palm. Dorian pushes up into him, and the Bull smiles. _Will be happy_ , he thinks; as though he isn’t already. As though this man right here isn’t everything. He almost opens his mouth to thank Dorian, though he isn’t sure what for. For that first night? For all the nights--and days--after? For coming back? For the presence of him in the Bull’s life, the two of them shaped and reshaped by the other? It is too much, and some things are better shown.

The Bull is very good at showing.

He releases Dorian, wanting to take his time. Fingers curled inward, he strokes down Dorian’s hardening cock to the head, luxuriating in the feel of Dorian’s skin beneath his knuckles. He detours briefly at the piercing, tugging lightly at it, eyes fast on Dorian when he hisses in a sharp breath. HIs fingers pull at the coverlet beneath him, and the Bull knows all his tells. Especially the tremble in the crease of his thigh when the Bull’s fingers retrace their steps and he wraps them again around Dorian, shifting his grip until it’s just right. He missed this, familiar though the gesture is. He missed the shape of Dorian in his hand, the feel and smell and _taste_ of him. The books on his nightstand and the warmth in his bed. Dorian breathing gently as he fell asleep, snoring lightly once he got there. The Bull hadn’t realized all the places Dorian had carved for himself--all the places the Bull had carved for him--until he’d been gone, and the absence had pulled at the Bull unlike any other. He’d ached in the dark, kept up at night by fears old and new, tossed and turned and wanted Dorian at his side.

Other nights, he’d touched himself, hand slipping below the sheets to wrap around his burgeoning erection to work himself to full hardness. He’d touched himself and thought of Dorian’s hand on him, of his on Dorian. Thought of the differences between them, and the similarities. Looking at Dorian now, comfortable in his skin, languid in their room, those nights seem worth it. To have this, here, the Bull would give whatever it takes.

The look Dorian gives him as he strokes him--slowly, gently, not so much a tease as a unhurried reacquaintance--is knowing, layered with fondness and heat. The Bull swallows hard and rubs his thumb over the head, pushing lightly at the piercing. Dorian shivers, the muscles in his lower belly jumping. His far foot he tucks against the Bull’s side. The other he draws up, his knee bent against the bed, thighs spread. He looks decadent, a treat just for Bull.

Licking his lips, the Bull pulls his hand away. Chuckles at the pout that gets him. He licks the palm of his hand from heel to fingers, follows them to their tips before reaching for Dorian again. Dorian sighs, a hush of air between them, and the Bull resumes his stroking, all the while appreciating the flush that grows on Dorian’s cheeks, that spreads down his neck to his chest and, eventually, his nipples with their twin piercings. The sight of them reminds the Bull of his gift, fallen to the rug for later. There are more important matters currently at hand; the box and its contents can wait.

Dorian’s close. The Bull can tell by the hitch in his breathing, the tightening of his fingers on the bed cover. The glazed look in his eyes he gets just before. The Bull strokes up, thumbs at Dorian’s piercing, and DOrian comes with a moan, low and rolling. In the confines of his pants, the Bull’s cock--mostly hard already--throbs as come streaks Dorian’s belly, some higher up on his chest. Groaning, the Bull leans down to lap at his skin, following the trail up and up to one of Dorian’s nipples, tasting nothing but skin and sweat and _Dorian_ all the way. The piercing is hard against his tongue, as is the nipple itself, and he feels more than hears the gasp that tumbles through Dorian, and then Dorian’s hands are on him, fingers scrabbling at his scalps before finding purchase at his horns and tugging.

The Bull goes, tracing the flush on Dorian’s skin to its source, dropping pecks here, planting open-mouthed kisses there. He takes his time as Dorian hums beneath him. Sucks another bruise at Dorian’s collar because why not, Dorian’s his. Dorian is _his_ , as surely as he is Dorian’s. He kisses Dorian’s neck, his jaw, each cheek. Finally--finally--his mouth.

Dorian’s tongue is slick and soft against his own as he rises to meet the Bull, as he retreats to let him in, making room. They kiss, unhurried, knowing now they have all the time in the world for this, for each other. They’ll make it work, the two of them.

Beneath him, Dorian is hot and loose-limbed, breathless and relaxed. His kisses make Bull want to shed his own clothes and join him in his naps, to never leave this room, this bed. He touches a palm to Dorian’s side, feels him press into the touch. Follows the line of his chest to flick at a nipple with his thumb. Dorian hisses, and he pulls away to grin only to find Dorian’s hands on his horns, tugging him close.

“Bull,” he breathes, the first he’s said since waking, voice sleep-rough. “Bull.” His lips brush the Bull’s own, and his mustache tickles.

The Bull’s fingers tighten.

“Fuck me.”

Less a request and more a sleepy-eyed demand; how can he refuse when Dorian’s lips are clinging, his hands pulling just so? It takes a greater one than he to refuse Dorian Pavus, not that he wants to. He kisses him once, deep and sure. Kisses him and pulls away to shed the harness first, and then the belt. Bending, he unfastens the brace, lets it fall, kicks off his boots. The whole while, he can feel Dorian’s eyes on him, watching. Waiting. He meets that gaze with a knowing smirk and flicks the fastening of his trousers open, appreciating the way Dorian’s eyes immediately drop to the movement with a lick of his lips.

His cheeks are flushed, and his thighs are open, and he wants Bull, _came back_ to Bull, and this is not the first day or even the second, but suddenly the Bull does not want to tease or put on a show or draw this out. (Not entirely true, this last thing, but true enough in the span of one breath and the next.) He wants Dorian, wants to feel him under and around him, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the hitch as he comes. He wants to taste and smell and hear him, and never forget--through distance, through time--the particular gift that is this man in his bed.

Perhaps he is growing soft away from the Qun.

Perhaps he is grown to embrace the inevitability that love...love makes a difference, and this is his.

The trousers drop without preamble, the Bull stepping out of them and toward Dorian’s open arms and thighs. Kneeling between his legs, the Bull lowers himself into Dorian’s embrace, welcoming the heat of him, the curves and plains of familiar skin against his own. Dorian wraps around him, holding him close, closer. A distraction from the task at hand--heh--but a welcome one, with his piercings pressed against the Bull’s chest and his knees at the Bull’s hips. He could thrust now, cock slotting in the sweet spot at the juncture of Dorian’s hip and thigh. The Bull could thrust and come, mark Dorian up. He could, but later. So much time for later now.

Now it’s time for other things, and the Bull pulls Dorian, levering himself up to reach for the bottle at their bedside. Sitting back on his heels, he unstoppers it, slicking his fingers with oil as Dorian watches him with dark eyes and shifts his hips, invitation clear.

The first touch of his fingers has Dorian shivering, and the Bull smiles, pausing to stroke the hot skin behind his balls before moving on. With slick fingers, he circles Dorian’s entrance, taking in the flutter of Dorian’s eyelashes and the flicking tip of his tongue, the jump of his pulse at his neck.

His own heart is in his throat. “Dorian…”

Dorian’s fingers find his wrist, their intent clear as he holds the Bull steady, steady, and then closer.

The Bull licks his lips and nods, slips the tip of a finger forward only to remove it and slip it in again, Dorian impossibly hot and clinging around him. A groan, and it might be Dorian and it might be Bull. Might be both of them together; it doesn’t matter. All that matters are these points of connection, skin against skin and hand on wrist, one finger--then two--opening Dorian up.

When Dorian’s grip is tight around him, fingers flexing against the Bull’s skin, and his cock is curving hard to his belly once again, gold glinting, the Bull pulls out. Dorian releases him then, eyes wide as the Bull reaches for the oil again, slicking fingers and palm. The sound he makes when the Bull takes himself in hand is obscene; the Bull tightens his grip, lip held hard between his teeth.

“Bull,” Dorian says, breathless and broken. “Bull, please.”

Hand on his cock, the Bull guides himself forward, head pressing against Dorian’s entrance. Pressing, and then he’s in, he’s in, and Dorian is perfect around him as he shifts above, sinking--finally--home.

 _Fuck_ , but Dorian’s--but he’s--Fuck, there is no better thing than this, than Dorian’s arms at his shoulders and legs at his waist. No better thing than Dorian’s face tucked against the curve of his neck, breath coming hot and fast and damp against him. Pleasure drunk and all Bull’s as they rock together in their bed in their room, everything gone quiet save for their breathing, the hitches in Dorian’s throat every time the Bull sinks in all the way, bodies tucked tight together, no room at all for anything else.

It’s the fingers at his neck, the lips brushing his skin, the soft sigh of his name against him that pushes him over the edge, buried deep as he is in Dorian, who follows right after, one pleasure triggering the other, an endless loop of _mine, yours, ours_ that would make Bull dizzy if it wasn’t so grounded.

The Bull’s heart beats in his chest, and Dorian’s beats in his, and the rhythms are indistinguishable.

*

“People will talk.”

Dorian’s hair is silken against the Bull’s fingers as he combs through it, sectioning it out before beginning to braid them together. Dorian sits between his legs, head bowed. “People talk about a lot of things,” the Bull says. “It’s what they do.”

Dorian chuckles. “Well, that’s true. People will talk _more_.”

“About?”

“The two of us disappearing in the middle of the afterno-- _nngh_.”

The shell of Dorian’s ear is warm against his lips. “Let them.”

Dorian cranes his head back to look up at him, flushed and beaming. “Let them,” he repeats, and then his stomach growls, a truly impressive sound that makes the Bull laugh, happiness bubbling inside him.

“All right, kadan,” he says as Dorian slips to the edge of the bed, his hair unbound slipping free across his shoulders. “Dinner, and then--”

“Bull?” Dorian straightens from where he’s been bent over, black box in hand. “What’s this?”

He’d forgotten. In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten the gift. Sitting back against the pillows, the Bull gestures at the box. “I saw them and thought of you,” he says, remembering the twin rings shining against their velvet pillow, snakes curling in half-loops. In his mind’s eye, he’d seen them adorning Dorian’s nipples, the metal glinting against his skin. He hopes Dorian--

Dorian’s grinning at him, eyes crinkling at the edges. It’s a good look on him; maybe even the Bull’s favorite. He looks like a man with a plan--several in fact--and the Bull is helpless.

“Dinner first, I think,” he says, the box snapping shut. “You’re going to need your strength.”

“To help you put those on?”

Dorian leers. “For what comes after.”

The Bull--happy, in love--moves to get dressed.


End file.
